


Don't worry, I'll find you again in our next lifetime.

by send-me (hillbillied)



Category: Fury (2014)
Genre: Diners, Gen, M/M, Modern Era, Multi, Other, Reincarnation, Second Chances
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2015-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:03:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hillbillied/pseuds/send-me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He sees bullets fly, and artillery explode. He hears gunshots, and men laughing. He shoots wounded horses. He laughs amongst the cigarette smoke, and cries in the belly of a tank. He feels blood on his skin. He mutters his sergeant's name.</p><p>And then, he wakes up.</p><p>Boyd Swan is 19. He lives in Des Moines, Iowa. He works at a diner, along with his friend Trini. He has never been in the army. He had never seen a tank, except in photographs. He has never been to war.</p><p>At least, not in this lifetime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I got a prompt on [my tumblr](http://best-job-i-ever-had.tumblr.com/) from the lovely [generalcrozier](http://generalcrozier.tumblr.com/) that went a little like this:  
>  _" like.. any don/boyd thing would be amazing but also i havent seen a lot of au s that are like ... really au so maybe if you really dont want to do any school work something like a high school au or like a 'everyone works in some shitty diner' au? "_  
>  And I kind of ran with the last bit...and made it terribly, terribly angsty. And long, this is gonna be multi-chapter.
> 
> It's about time I posted a Fury fic though, right?

_“Book of Isaiah, Chapter 6.”_

_It’s from the Bible, but anyone could have told him that. It stays with him though, even amongst the cigarette smoke and stench of gasoline, hangs in the air worse than anything. It weighs them all down with a harsh kind of comfort, all five men camped out in a space barely big enough for four._

_The sergeant – and he can’t remember his name, though he tries – looks him dead in the eye as he says it. The soldier who stares back – that must be him, he thinks – laughs._

_He laughs and nudges the officer’s knee._

_“Yeah!” And it’s too joyful a sound for the inside of this coffin – it’s tank, isn’t it? “Yeah,” He must say the sergeant’s name, but he can’t hear it for some reason. “Exactly right."_

_He praises the man for the knowledge, though he’s not sure why he’s so pleased about it. He takes another swig of what must be alcohol._

_The sergeant smiles. They all smile._

_The cigarette smoke hangs in the air, accompanied by the stench of gasoline._

* * *

He opens his eyes.

A hazy white greets him, along with the clanging of steel pots and the chirping of birds from the window. The former must come from the kitchen. Unless his roommate has decided to bring their cooking ware into the bedroom. It wouldn't be the first time.

The ceiling swims a little bit as he stares up at it, fuzzy and slightly beige in some spots.

Sometimes he thinks he may as well be blind. Everything is such a blur like this, what more harm could be done with it being black rather than white.

He grunts, decides not to think about it, those thoughts too heavy for a morning this early. Rolling onto his side, he slowly pushes himself into a sitting position. The heels of his hands find his eyes and rub blearily at them, as if that will help the blurriness of the surrounding world.

It doesn't, but he didn't expect it to. He reaches out and pats carefully at the bedside table, searching for the cold touch of glass and metal. He finds it, taking the spectacles in both hands and sliding them onto his face. They sit comfortably behind his ears and he blinks, finally able to see in clarity.

 _March 18 th, 2006_ reads the calender by his bedside. The radio hums from the kitchen, the clattering of pots replaced by that of bowls and plates. The floorboards creak and the open doorway becomes occupied, a suspicious face appearing as a familiar friend squints in at him.

“Y’alright, Boyd?”

Boyd – and it’s strange, he’s almost glad for the reminder – blinks and raises his head. He smiles, dragging a hand through his hair.

“’m fine, thanks.” He huffs out a laugh, hands once again moving to scrub at his eyes, “Tired s’all.”

“Y’need more sleep, man.”

“Could say the same t’you, Trini.”

“What are you, my ma?” Trini plants himself on the opposite bed, a plate in one hand and a bowl in the other. The mattress dips under his weight.

“May as well be.

“Huh.” The Mexican man puts on a confused expression, “Then I guess it’s Mother’s Day. Breakfast in bed, m’amm.” He passes the plate across the gap between the two beds, and Boyd takes it with a chuckle and a gracious ‘thank you’. It’s piled with rashers of bacon and eggs.

“Ya’ didn’ have t'.”

“Yer’ getting skinny, man.” Trini protests, digging into his own loaded bowl of cereal, “Wasting away.”

“Mmn.” Boyd hums, nodding as he raises his eyebrows doubtfully. He picks at the food with a fork, placed helpfully on the plate’s edge. “Mnnn.”

“' _Mnn_ ’ nothin’. When they say a guy’s got skeleton’s in his closet, they don’t mean his starving roommate.”

“Thanks for that analogy, Trini.”

“I’m jus’ sayin’.” The man puts his hands up in surrender, as best he can with a spoon between his fingers and a bowl balancing on the opposite palm. “Jus’ sayin’.”

“Mnn.”

Boyd is nothing if not polite, and he shovels down the contents of his plate quickly. He pins the eggs with his fork and folds them into his mouth as efficiently as he can, chewing them tastelessly before swallowing them down. It’s the thought that counts.

“Thank you, Gordo.”

The man has already risen from the other bed. “Welcome.” He takes the plate as he leaves, with Boyd offering another thank you and a grateful nod. His hands move to rub his eyes again.

His gaze wanders to the bedside table. The calendar stares back, today’s date gleaming in the light. It doesn't feel like March. Gordo had found an unused party popper under the bed from New Year’s. The months were disappearing already.

Boyd inhales deeply, because he needs to. He feels like he forgets to breathe sometimes. A little too often, actually. The doctor’s are unsure if it’s asthma or simply a mental thing. A result of stress, maybe. Though Boyd’s not sure he’s ever experienced that much stress in his life. It’s been reasonably plain sailing up until now, and the winds have made no move to change yet.

“Boyd, get your ass up, before the water goes cold!”

His hand runs through his hair again, fingernails scratching at his temple as his body finally decides it’s time to get up. Bare feet planted firmly on the floor, Boyd stands, shuffling across the room to collect his discarded clothing from yesterday. Running to work is not something he’s in the mood for.

He’s almost forgotten about his dream by the time he’s made his way to the shower.

* * *

‘ _Hips don’t lie_ ’ is on the radio and Gordo is singing along. Boyd’s trying not to laugh as the man swings his hips, his face contorting into dramatic expressions as he whispers the lyrics. Boyd keeps his laughter contained in a tight smile, and doesn't mention it. It’s nice to see the man enjoying himself, even as he flips one of the burgers on the grill.

Because their job isn't so much boring as it is repetitive. Boyd doesn't mind, since he had always taken pleasure in routine, but Gordo wasn't like that. It warms the Christian’s heart to see his friend happy, even in the most dreaded part of his day.

The diner is relatively quiet today. Though it was never too much to handle; it’s small and cosy, shiny 40's bar stools and all. ‘ _Themed_ ’ doesn’t really cover it. It’s more ‘tacky’, with the silver counter and red leather booths. But the coffee's good and it makes up for the tasteless furniture.

Boyd watches the passers-by through the large windows, listening for the jingle of the doorbell. The wash-cloth in his hand glides lazily back and forth over the counter.

“Oh, we got company. 10 o’clock.”

Boyd feels Gordo tense up behind him, singing cut short as he lets out an abrupt groan. Boyd smiles.

The doorbell jingles as the door is pushed open a little too forcefully, Boyd abandoning his cleaning to greet the customer who makes a beeline for the two employees. He straightens up, trying to keep a serious expression on his face.

“Good mornin’, sir, an’ how can I help you?”

The customer doesn't disappoint, giving him the response he expects.

“Cut that professional shit, Boyd, do I look like some greased-up fancy-man to you?”

Boyd can’t hide his growing smile.

“It’s nice t’see ya’ too, Grady.” He glances over his shoulder, “Gordo, yer’ husbands here!”

“ _Vete a la mierda!_ ”

“Wha’s he sayin’?” Grady injects, peering round the counter, “ _What you sayin’?_ ”

“I said ‘ _fuck you!_ ’.”

“Aw, maybe later, _darlin’_.”

Trini quickly appears at Boyd’s side, armed with a threatening spatula. He’s got a look of cold disappointment on his face that only an angry mother could conjure. Grady grins back at him, legs crossed as he leans his elbows on the counter top.

Boyd finds himself playing peacemaker, as usual, though he knows there’s no malice in it all. “What can I get ya’, Grady?” He asks, gently lowering Gordo’s spatula with a hand to the man’s wrist.

“I said cut that professional shit.”

“Yeah, _Boyd_.” Trini agrees, folding his arms, “I know his order. Quarter pounder with everythin’ slapped on top. An’ a special helpin’ of spit from _yours truly_.”

“Nice to know y’love me enough to make it special.” Grady drawls, winking at the Mexican man.

“Anythin’ for _you_ , Coon-ass.”

“Ya’ll real cute.” Boyd interrupts, steering Trini back to the grill with one hand and shooing Grady into a seat with the other, “Mind if I keep workin’?”

Gordo mumbles something in Spanish as Grady pulls a dramatic face. They part ways though, with one moving back to his cooking and the other swinging a leg over the nearest metal stool, planting himself down with a huff.

Boyd starts pouring a fresh cup of coffee. He knows their silence won’t last, and he’s right; they bicker over the counter top, pretending he can’t hear. He pretends right along with them.

A hand reaching into the pocket of his shirt, Boyd puts the coffee pot down for a moment to adjust his glasses, pushing them up his nose. He sniffs as he pulls the small battered book from his uniform. Taking the coffee pot back in hand, he continues pouring out Grady’s order into a mug. He licks the thumb of his free hand, flicking through the Bible’s pages expertly, pinning it open on the counter with his fingers.

Even one handed, he doesn't spare his chance to read. Though he’s read it all before.

His lips move silently over the words that greet him.

“Book of Isaiah, _Chapter 6_...”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Those who read live a thousand lifetimes."  
> And those who live a thousand lifetimes should never read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is still sort of scene-setting; another slow build chapter. I didn't want to introduce any major elements after just one chapter, so if it seems slow that's why! Sorry! It just didn't fit the flow of the story to throw in every major element right in during chapter two! The pace will pick up, promise!

_He sits atop the world - at least, it feels like that. The world is not much of a sight, though; as far as the eye can see is uneven fields and the burning ruins of houses. Smoke trails into the sky. Everything is a shade of grey. The world has nothing to offer him, it seems._

_Someone takes a seat next to him, and maybe he scoots over a little to give them room. He realizes then that he's sat on the turret of a tank._

_"Here." As if answering a silent question, his visitor continues; "Coffee."_

_He takes the tin mug with a nod and a soft thanks. It's warm, he can feel it through his gloves. You'd think they'd keep out the cold a little better. They don't, and the hot cup is bliss to his numb fingers. He doesn't think he's ever been so cold in his life._

_"Anythin'?"_

_He takes a sip of his coffee. It's the most bitter shit he's ever tasted; it's heavenly._

_"Nothin'."_

_And he can't see anything, truly; it's all fog and grey skies and trails of smoke._

_Artillery fire rattles off nearby. Neither of the men flinch._

_He turns to look at his company, finds a familiar face staring back. It's the sergeant from before, the one in the tank. (Or maybe he should say 'the sergeant from after', because what he's witnessing here must come before any mention of Isaiah.)_

_He says the man's name. Once again, though he's sure he's spoken, he doesn't hear it._

_But the sergeant does and he sits up a little straighter, facing his company properly._

_"Yeah, Boyd?"_

* * *

He wakes up.

The hazy white ceiling greets him, only this time he can hear the distinct beeping of an alarm clock. His arm fumbles in the midst of the blankets, finally twisting free to pat wearily at the bedside table. Eventually his hand hits its mark, shutting off the insistent bleeping with a hard smack to the clock's surface.

"Man, you look like shit."

Gordo's at the door again, and it would feel like Déjà vu had Boyd not been waking up in a similar fashion for the past year. His only response is a groan, fingers finding his eyes as he rubs at the skin there.

"Wha's the time?"

" _Late_." Trini supplies helpfully, and the floor creaks as he departs back to the kitchen.

"Tha's not a time, Gordo."

A huff of laughter comes from the other room. "9:30."

Boyd sits bolt upright in bed, swaying slightly as it dawns on him quite how ' _late_ ' it was. He's fumbling for his glasses by the time Gordo speaks again.

"That Grady, I swear - He's got some nerve!" The complaints come rapidly, and the one of them still in bed feels another infamous rant coming on. 

Boyd's slipped his legs off the mattress and is fumbling with his socks by the time Trini's decided to continue. "He comes in all cocky - an', _man_ , is he _cocky_! Thinks he can just act up all brash an' then fix it with his sweet-talk; I swear, he's gonna get socked in the jaw one day-" The words echo off the thin walls and Boyd hums in agreement at all the right cues, contemplating whether or not to just abandon all hope of showering today.

"An' then - and _then_ , he starts gettin' all crude! Like, man, I know his game! Bet he's _real_ popular with the ladies, bet they eat that shit right up!" Boyd's somewhere between hitching up his pants and trying to button his shirt simultaneously when Gordo finally brings his rant around to full throttle.

"An' I bet they all think he's some suave piece of shit. He ain't, I tell you - He is _not_. He's just another piece of Arkansas trash an' I am not about that shit. It's not pretty. An' it ain't cute, neither. No, sir. What an ass..."

Boyd appears in the kitchen, glasses askew as he finishes buckling his belt. "So, when's the weddin'?"

Gordo hits him with a newspaper.

* * *

 

Though he can remember last night's dream no more clearly than the last, somehow the notion of it sticks to the inside of Boyd's brain. Like honey on his mind. He doesn't like it. His thoughts are now a beehive; a giant, _buzzing_ beehive. And he's distracted. And he can't really remember why.

"You alright there, son?"

Boyd blinks. "Yes'ir." He flips the top page of his battered notebook, "S'nothin'. Had a late night, s'all. Sorry - what can I get ya'?"

His pen hovers over the lines of the paper, the gentleman sitting before him smiling kindly. The elderly customer rattles off his regular order, Boyd's pen scribbling notes enthusiastically. He needn't to anymore, he knows the order by heart.

He thanks the customer with a nod and takes his leave. The elderly man smiles after him, eyes crinkled happily as he turns back to the window. 

Boyd tosses the notebook at Gordo, who catches it effortlessly. He takes a glance at it before discarding it on a nearby counter top. He, too, knows the order by heart.

"Y'think Grady'll be around today?"

Boyd pauses in his work making a fresh pot of coffee, a small smile coming to his lips. He gives the coffee pot a knowing look, keeping his back to his friend.

"Thought ya' didn't like Grady." If the sound of a spatula hitting the floor and following curse is anything to go by, Boyd would say he'd hit his mark. His smile widens.

"I _don't like_ Grady." Trini states slowly, straightening up from retrieving his spatula, "I'm just _fond_ of him."

" _Mnn_." It's a hum of agreement, laced with a sarcasm that only Boyd can muster. The kind of silent ' _Sure you are_ ' perfectly portrayed through a single syllable. 

Gordo persists. "I _don't like_ Grady."

"Why you always talkin' about him like he's yer' boyfriend then?"

Boyd gets hit with a spatula this time.

* * *

 

Grady does turn up later. Gordo pretends to be annoyed. They argue over whether the egg on Grady's burger is well-done enough.

Boyd's there, but not really. Physically, yes; his presence ensures whatever trivial fight they're having doesn't escalate and scare the other customers.

Mentally, he's miles away. Staring out the window at grey buildings and even grayer skies.

The diner's near-empty, the cold afternoon sucking the life out of the neighborhood. It's damp outside, Grady said it might rain. Gordo decided that it won't, and now they have something new to argue about. They were currently placing bets on the matter.

Boyd continues to stir his own mug of coffee. It's gone tepid by now. The newspapers in the shop across the street read ' _March 19th_ ' in bold print. Boyd can't see them, he just guesses, familiar with the black and white blur of the magazine stands. He continues to nurse his coffee as if it's still warm.

As if he had any intention of drinking it.

He's unsure how he feels about coffee. It serves a purpose, when it's dark and cold and you've been up since yesterday. But even the sweetest of kinds remind him of dirt, with an aftertaste even more bitter than the drink itself. It's something he can't shake, so he drinks it when he needs to and avoids it otherwise.

He doesn't need it now. He's not sure why he made himself a cup.

Boyd looks down at the lukewarm drink with an offended frown. The brown liquid stares back, and it looks more like muddy water than ever. He wonders why he thinks that so adamantly.

He thinks maybe he just missed the smell, the heat of the mug in his hands. Not that that makes sense. He works in a diner, after all. Coffee is nothing special. Never has been.

Boyd makes himself another cup anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, guys, I really appreciate it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Human beings have many complicated names for very simple things.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super late update, sorry! Anyway, enjoy!

_He's reading the bible._

_How he can see the tiny printed letters in what little light he has baffles him. A familiar weight on the bridge of his nose tells him he's wearing glasses. Something is comforting about that, like he's always had them. Like he always would._

_Cigarette smoke clouds his vision, the fingers of his gloves leaving smear marks on his spectacles as he wipes the condensation away. It's hot as Hell in a tank._

_And it's freezing cold outside, it seems, because when the shuddering metal rolls to a halt and the sergeant pops the turret hatch, a chill runs down his spine that he never hoped to experience again. He realizes how sweaty he feels, under the layers of dirt and his threadbare uniform._

_He climbs out the tank._

_He follows the sergeant - the one whose name is always on his lips but never reaches his ears - and they enter what must be a farm. They're in Germany. There's a blown-out hole in the barn's wall. The sky is grayer than he thinks he's ever seen it._

_The sergeant kneels over a pile of straw, taking handfuls of it and clearing it away from the uncovered ground. Dirt greets him. Maybe Boyd wasn't paying attention or maybe the sergeant already knew what he was looking for. But either way, he's doesn't feel sure of what the other soldier is doing. With a cry of victory, the man stumbles back, straightening up with a laugh._

_His grin is too pleased with the tiny treasure he's found, turning to show Boyd the pale chicken egg between his gloved fingers. His smile lights up his face. He looks younger than before, yet still older than he truly is._

_"See that?" They're facing each other, a foot apart, "That's gonna make the best fuckin' meal you ever tasted in your life."_

_The egg exchanges hands, pressed against Boyd's gloved palm. He cradles it without concern, lifting it closer to his face to inspect it - Though they both know that in reality he's treasuring it with the utmost care, knowing the smile it brought to the sergeant's face._

_"Fresh as it comes." The sergeant's hands are on his hips and he's looking down proudly at the egg._

_"An' who's gonna cook it?" Boyd asks, "An' where?"_

_"We'll cross that bridge when we get to it."_

_There's a hand clapping his shoulder, one that turns into a comforting grip. The sergeant is looking at him, now, and there's a crooked scar on his face. He turns away from Boyd, back to the straw pile._

_"C'mon. Unless you want the rest of 'em bitchin' about it, you better help me find some more."_

* * *

 

He's shaken awake by Gordo. It's 9:47AM. 

And the calender says _March 20th_.

_2006._

They have to run to the diner. Boyd's uniform is skewed and Trini's cussing at him the whole way there. He can only apologize, and thank the man for waking him up when he did rather than simply leaving without him.

" _Man_ , you were _wasted_." Gordo drawls, hands furiously tying the knot of his apron behind his back, "Your alarm was fuckin' _buzzin'_ like nobody's business! Slept right through it. I thought you were _dead_!"

Boyd hums noncommittally. He'll feel guilty for not listening later, too busy kneading his temple with one hand and pouring himself a fresh coffee with the other. His dark hair falls into his eyes. He feels like he's gonna be sick.

The feeling will pass.

"Be honest...What'd ya' drink last night?"

Boyd stops pouring his coffee, putting the pot down to give Gordo a look of both confusion and disappointment.

"Ya' think I'm hungover." He says slowly, hanging his quiet annoyance on each word. His roommate is well aware he doesn't drink.

Trini holds his hands up in surrender, spatula brandished with a shrug. "I'm just askin', man."

Narrowing his eyes, Boyd turns back to his coffee with a painful slowness, lifting it to his lips and taking a miserable gulp. It's warm and bitter and he downs the mug with a shudder of disgust.

It still reminds him of dirt.

* * *

 

"You look tired." If the laughter that accompanied the the words wasn't so soft, Boyd would think he was being made fun of.

"I am, sir." He replies honestly, handing the old man his plate and drink, "Can't say anymore than that."

The elderly customer's eyes crinkle as he smiles, bearing a sympathetic look. He nods in understanding. 

"As long as you're on your feet. I hope you get a better night's sleep after today."

Boyd sighs softly, though the smile he returns is a genuine one. "I'd hope so - Thanks for yer' concern though, sir. I appreciate it."

The old man's eyes seem to look through him as he holds his cutlery in brittle fingers, and Boyd would say that, did he believe in such things, the man could read minds. The look the customer gave pierced right down to the core.

Gordo had once commented on it. ' _That man knows the secrets of the universe_ ', he'd said one evening, as the elderly man had waved them goodbye and left the diner. Boyd had dismissed it. For only God could know the secrets of the universe.

Boyd collects up the man's empty mug. "More coffee, sir?"

"Always." The elderly customer laughs in response, looking up from his meal with a smile, "Thank you."

He's no Grady Travis, but Boyd likes the man. He's another familiar face, yes, but a character in his own right. Though he's sure he knows nothing of the man himself, Boyd looks forward to chatting with the elderly customer. Their conversations have only ever been kind ones.

There's a jingle of the doorbell and Gordo's calling him. Boyd excuses himself with a huff and a smile, turning on his heel to head back to the kitchen.

He hits a solid body instead.

His shoes squeak on the tiles as Boyd stumbles back a pace, hand flying to his face to grab his glasses before they're knocked to the floor. Startled as he was, he manages to keep a firm grip on the coffee mug, the hand re-positioning his spectacles moving back to it as if to check it was still in his grasp. 

He straightens up, his fingers leaving the mug once more to scrub at his eyes in relief.

"S-Sorry, sir, I didn't see ya' there." Startled, yes, but nothing more. He hopes no harm was done on his part.

"It's fine." The firm voice doesn't sound offended, and Boyd pinches the bridge of his nose. "I should have been paying attention. Are you alright, Boyd?"

* * *

 

_"Yeah, Boyd?"_

* * *

 

He sucks in a breath, like he's been winded. It's the feeling of being hit with a football, the air knocked from your lungs. Or the drop in your stomach when a roller coaster tips over the edge of its biggest dive.

Except, it's neither of those things. It's just a word. It's a single word - _his name_ \- that brings that impact, that kick that leaves him without air.

There's a hand on his shoulder. He can hear cars honking outside. He's in a diner. He's in the diner that he works at, and there's an empty coffee mug in his hand.

And a familiar face he's never seen before is frowning at him, fingers gripping his shoulder as if he might keel over.

"You alright, son?"

Boyd blinks. And he can't remember where he went in that moment, or why he ever felt breathless at all. "H-How'd yer' know my...?"

The concern and confusion on the customer's face softens, replaced with a pitying smile. "...It's on your name tag."

The hand leaves his shoulder, moving to tap a finger on the plastic that adorns Boyd's uniform. He looks down, to check, and remembers the tag clipped onto his breast pocket. ' _BOYD_ ' is scrawled in black sharpie behind the protective casing, a crudely drawn smiley face sat next to it.

Courtesy of Gordo. Boyd hadn't found the heart to cover it up yet.

"Right. Sorry." The two step away from each other, the space between them suddenly too small for both men. Boyd's eyes scan the diner for anything to look at besides the customer's eyes, which stay fixed on his face in confusion.

"You sure you okay?" The stranger asks, and the wary concern only solidifies the notion that Boyd is acting like an idiot.

He wonders when his composure hit the fan.

"Yeah. Sorry, sir, I - _er_ \- I was startled is all." Boyd shrugs and meets the man's eye, "Lemme get yer' a drink. Coffee alright?"

"Just what I'm here for." The man breathes, and all tension between them seeps away on his voice.

Boyd nods, excusing himself to the safety that lurks behind the counter. Gordo's still flipping burgers. An occasional car horn can be heard honking on the street outside. The world is just as Boyd left it.

He pours out a fresh mug of coffee. There's a comfort in the routine, in the task he's done a thousand times or more. The brown liquid slowly fills up the new mug, the old one Boyd had been carrying discarded in the sink for later.

Adjusting his glasses for a final time, he takes the steaming drink in hand, making his way out from behind the shelter of the counter. 

Because this is his job, this is what he does. He serves coffee.

Weaving between the booths, Boyd stops himself by one on the far left, a few seats behind the old man with the kind smile. That's where the new customer - one he's never seen before - has seated himself, and Boyd places his mug on the table in front of him.

He takes out his notebook.

" _Okay_ , so what can I get ya'?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I think we all know who just got introduced.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Honesty is cheap when you are spared telling the whole truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are; next chapter! Late as usual! Enjoy!

_He's in the desert._

_There is no mud here, no cold air. And certainly no grey sky. The Heaven's are a pale orange, in fact, and the ground under his feet is of the driest kind. The horizon is a shimmering haze of heat. Everything is covered in dust, himself included._

_The tank, too. It can't be more than 6 months old, yet it bears the dirt of decades. The dust coats it like a layer of flour._

_He walks towards it and with a few more steps he remembers why._

_He's been assigned to this tank. Specifically; the gun of this tank._

_He's in North Africa. It is 1942._

_A tug of his hands brings the bag on his shoulder closer to his neck. He's sweating though he's barely walked at all. His boots crunch in the dirt. He'll be as dusty as the tank soon. Maybe even more so._

_He halts in front of the metal beast, fingers carding through his hair as his bag hits the cracked ground. He's not wearing his glasses. He doesn't really think about it; he only needs them for reading._

_Because how can a gunner shoot without keen eyes to guide him?_

_"Which one 're you, then?"_

_There's a man perched on the tank's turret. He's slicing an apple with a pocketknife, silhouetted by the sun behind him. His elbow is slung over the machine's barrel, blank and freshly painted under the layers of dust. The insignia on his jacket tells Boyd that this man is a sergeant._

_The sergeant with the eggs, and the Book of Isaiah. From before._

_Boyd corrects himself. From_ after _. They have never met before now._

_The man is looking at him expectantly, with a cold and grim expression. Yes, this is his sergeant._

_"Boyd Swan." The soldier recites, craning his neck to look up at the commander of the tank, "Fifth Grade Technician."_

_"Mnn." His sergeant grunts, distracted as he slices another piece off the apple, "You're my gunner."_

_And that in itself seems more fitting than any name Boyd had ever been given before._

_"Yes'ir."_

_The chunk of apple disappears inside the other man's mouth, and he chews it thoughtfully. He looks his gunner up and down._

_And his gunner stares back, appraises him similarly. Though he's more subtle about it, unlike his sergeant, who drags his eyes up and down the soldier like he's a piece of meat. And in retrospect, that's exactly what he is. They all are._

_They just don't know it yet. But they will come to, soon._

_"Yer' been here long, sir?" Boyd asks, and his curious frown hides a smile._

_The sergeant shakes his head. "Not nearly long enough." He nods towards the direction his gunner came from. "Got here yesterday."_

_Though he acts solid, Boyd is now confident that this man is no more experienced than he is. And he takes solace in that fact, smiling politely._

_"Well, sir, I don't know what the custom is here, but back home when someone tells ya' their name, yer' traditionally supposed to give 'em yours 'n return."_

_The gunner is pleased; he catches his sergeant off guard. The man abruptly stops peeling his apple, his disinterested chewing coming to a halt. He stares mercilessly at the other man for another moment._

_And Boyd stares right back._

_His sergeant laughs. First a chuckle, small and quiet - then louder as the man shakes his head in disbelief._

_The apple is tossed off the tank, falling away half-finished. A now empty hand extends down, offered willingly._

_"Name's Don." Boyd takes his sergeant's hand, smiling softly as he's pulled up atop the turret. "Don Collier."_

_"Please t'meet ya', Sergeant Collier."_

* * *

 

He sits bolt upright.

No ceiling greets him, nor the frantic shaking of someone trying to wake him up. Only darkness, accompanied by the soft purr of Gordo's snores from the bed across the room. They may as well sleep in the same bed, the space between them is so small.

Boyd's eyes begin to adjust to the darkness. A few blurry shapes appear - the crumpled blankets, his bare feet resting near the end of the matress. There is a string of hazy lines, each one protuding pale light, that he can only assume is the window blinds.

They're closed. The sun is only just starting to rise.

Boyd looks to the alarm clock, its plastic lid crooked from when he'd smacked it two nights ago. The red numbers glare back at him. He fumbles for his glasses on the bedside table, slipping them up his nose and bringing the world back into focus.

He leans over to squint at the alarm clock.

_6:15 AM_.

The white pages of the calender stand out in the din. It reads March 20th.

Boyd reaches out and carefully flips the top page over, revealing the next date.

_March 21st._

_2006._

His elbows sink into the mattress as he leans back, allowing himself to return to a laying position. His fingers card through his hair as he stares up at the ceiling. It's in focus now, his eyes adjusting to the darkness with the help of his glasses.

Boyd turns on his side, pausing to place the pair of spectacles back on the bedside table and bury his face in the pillow once more. 

Somehow, though, it doesn't help. He's awake; alert in a way he hasn't been in months.

He sits up, and puts on his glasses.

* * *

 

Grady was watching from the other side of the counter, chewing thoughtfully on his eggs. His fork is balanced in his hand, resting on the half empty plate. His eyes are following Boyd's movements, squinting in a suspicious kind of way.

"What's up with bible-boy?"

Boyd can only give the coffee pot a look of disappointment; a deadpan stare that is long past frustration. He continues pouring out another mugful.

"What you say, Grady?" Gordo asks sharply, but somehow there's not even an inch of anger to it. Because they're all far too fond of each other for that, despite appearances.

At the counter, Grady jabs his fork in Boyd's direction. "He's peppier than normal." In typical Grady fashion, he shovels another mouthful of eggs into his mouth as he speaks, "And he ain't normally _peppy_."

Trini appraises Boyd for a minute before shrugging. "Maybe Jesus finally replied to his prayers."

Grady almost loses his eggs laughing. Boyd isn't sure what's so funny, passing the man his drink and giving Gordo the same deadpan look he gave the coffee pot.

It wasn't so much that he was _peppy_ as he was _lively_ , and even that word didn't fit. He wasn't dragging his feet, didn't feel tired to the point of exhaustion. Which seemed impossible, because he felt like he'd gained an even heavier weight upon his shoulders since yesterday.

Because he couldn't shake the nagging images, the blurry memories of his dream that were still clinging to his mind. Ringing in his ears.

_Buzzing_. Like a _giant beehive_ in his head.

The doorbell jingles. Grady's chatting to Gordo. Boyd fishes around in his pocket for his notepad. Retrieving it, he finds the pen lodged behind his ear, jutting out from where it's pinned by his glasses. He takes it in his fingers, making his way from the counter in pursuit of the latest customer.

He finds himself standing at the same booth as yesterday. 

With that same familiar face sitting before him, gaze currently buried in a menu. Somehow Boyd's sure the man isn't actually reading it.

"Hello, ag'in, sir; What can I get yer'?"

Scrubbing a hand over his face, the man answers; "Coffee. Whatever it was yesterday."

And Boyd's smiles absentmindedly, huffing out a laugh. It goes unnoticed. "Anythin' else, sir?"

Though he seems uninterested in it, the customer continues to scan the menu. And, as Boyd once again predicts, he isn't actually reading it.

" _Mnn_. No, thank you." 

It's curt and firm and Boyd wonders why the man even took the moment to dwell on the matter, considering he already had his mind made up long before he walked through the door. But, then again, why this particular customer even bothered returning was a mystery in itself.

He wasn't a local, not with his slick city haircut and briefcase tucked beneath the table.

Boyd didn't dwell on it. He chose not to care.

"Alright. One coffee." He tucks the notepad back into his pocket, pen returning to its place behind his ear, "One moment then, Mr. Collier."

And it's his turn to feel smug with himself, catching the look of stunned confusion the man sends him just as he starts to walk away. It's a stare that follows him all the way back to the counter, watches him as he pours out a fresh mug of coffee. 

Gordo gives him a look as he moves back out amongst the booths, with drink in hand and a blank expression that Boyd hopes hides his sinful feeling of victory.

"There you are, sir." He places the coffee on the table, straightening up to find the customer squinting at him.

The drink is ignored as the man looks him up and down. Boyd stares right back.

" _How'd you know my name?_ "

And isn't that a loaded question. A million answers come to mind, all of them sounding ridiculous bar one. Because dreams are just that; dreams, no matter how many coincidences they are loaded with. And they certainly aren't something you share with strangers

Boyd smiles politely. "It's on yer' briefcase."

They both spare a glance beneath the table. A small bronze tag greets them, embedded in the dark leather of the man's bag.

' _D. COLLIER_ '.

"If ya' need anythin' else, just ask." Wiping his hands on his apron, Boyd takes his leave, his polite smile turning to a smug one the moment he's turned away.

He's simply returning the favour, he tells himself. He's lying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The comments and kudos you've given are super appreciated by the way, guys; they really motivate me to write more! I'm really grateful for your interest so thank you, it means a lot! And I hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I am writing it!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, guys! Hit me up on tumblr, your thoughts are always appreciated!


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